A Series of Unfortunate Events: the Asinine Assassin
by maxdowt
Summary: I could create a beautiful summary, exactly detailing how the Baudelaire orphans (Violet, Klaus, and Sunny) came to be under the guardianship of one Wade Wilson or their misfortunes as they outwit the dastardly Count Olaf (who has a much harder time as most of his plots require the death of their guardian). But instead, i will encourage you to simply look away.
1. Chapter 1

To my darling Laurscream-

This was a great idea

Or maybe it wasn't

We'll see.

Dear reader, perhaps you clicked on this link thinking that the act of fiction that would be taking place would remain true to the source material. Perhaps you even thought that the writer has recently read the novels or comics that this fan-made story is supposed to relate to. Perhaps you had the idea that the writer would try their best to fit this story somewhere within the canon, in betwixt events that take place between the pages (physical or metaphorical, in this digital day and age) of the story lines of the characters they are using.

Dear reader, I as the writer would like to prepare you for much disappointment, as this fiction does none of those things. It also is not going to be telling a happy story, as you should know, considering that this was most likely tagged as _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ and you knowingly and decisively clicked on it. Or perhaps you did not. If you are of the latter, I give you my deepest apologies for such accusations and will not be offended if you vacate this fiction post-haste.

The tale of the Baudelaire orphans three is not a joyous romp and it should never be expected for it to be as such, even in a non-canonical and silly fan-made crossover parody. The Baudelaire orphans have a very unfortunate life, and the events that set off this particular tale are no different and stick strictly to the norm that is their unfortunate circumstances.

That is to say, the events that precede, occur during, and follow this tale are all equally unfortunate, even if some of them technically never happened.

I must give a small aside to our dearest Lemony Snicket, rest his soul. He has done a fabulous job in obtaining information on the three Baudelaire orphans that I would never be capable of conjuring myself, especially considering that he has supposedly been dead for some time. I, however, have an imagination that is possibly too big and many deadlines to postpone in lieu of fabricating a tale in which three orphans, accustomed to losing their guardians to the hands of the dreadful Count Olaf (who then passes them to the clutches of death), find themselves under the care of a man who cannot die and should definitely never be left to guard over children.

And that, my dear reader, is where we begin.

Now would be a fantastic time to look away, if you so desire. I would encourage it, even.

If you are still reading this, you either have not heeded my warning or have decided to skim read through it. Either way, you will hopefully leave soon because the lives of the Baudelaire orphans is something even the most brave and daring would find too horrible for words.

Thankfully I am neither brave nor daring. I am just incredibly bored.

We shall begin at a time a little before our actual story begins, in the offices of Mortuary Money Management. A red-clad assassin had made short work of his charge and had decided to stroll around the place at his leisure. An assassin, like anyone who runs a business, takes the money of paying consumers in exchange for a good or service. In the case of an assassin, said good or service is taking the life or lives of others, depending on the client.

In this case, a poor chap in the department had somehow managed to make another chap very angry and dissatisfied. At least, those are the emotions I would attribute to someone that would go so far as to hire an assassin. I am not the sort to hire assassins, and even if I were, i would not know how to go about it, so I can only assume these were the emotions of the client that had hired this particular one.

In any case, the man who makes a living by making it so that others cannot entertained himself by flicking through the different files, one by one. He was rather messy and left several red prints from the tips of his gloved fingers. To look at him, one would not notice that he had sliced a man's jugular with a sword just moments ago for a healthy sum of cash. He was rather calm for someone who had just done such an act. He sat whimsically perched on a desk, kicking his boot-clad feet with every file he skimmed. An observer would also not notice any of the blood peppering his suit because it was red. This was intentional.

He had just gotten through the A's and had made it a little ways into the B's, since the files were in alphabetical order. Many factors contributed to him finding the file that he did. For one, it had been sent to be reviewed by the member of the staff that was now surely considered a cadaver. Another contributing factor was the well-worn sleeve, as though the file had been open, shut, thumbed, and changed so many times that the hardy manilla folder was on its last strands. The biggest contributing factor to him paying attention to this one file, and therefore dooming the orphans contained within the file to further misfortune, was the name.

"Baudelaire," he said out loud. He developed this habit at some point or another due to insanity or boredom. Either way, he often spoke his mind, even if the only ears to hear the words were literal dead ones. "Baudelaire?" this time it was a question asked to the room. He looked up from the file.

"Now, if that ain't the most pretentious, stuck up name I have ever heard in my life."

He commenced skimming, albeit this time more thoroughly than the other files he had skimmed. He caught a few names and immediately forgot them. He didn't care about names, or else he would have given himself a better one. Or a worse one. He is that sort of person. He noted the ages listed and the status only briefly and immediately forgot that as well. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to the file's occupants, he would have at least hesitated before doing the regrettable action that he would go through with moments later. If he had seen their listing as "orphaned," he may have even thought to leave well enough alone.

To leave something well enough alone is to not change something that cannot be made better by changing it. Unfortunately, this assassin was not the sort of person with the foresight to leave well enough alone. Some would even say that he was barely a person, though those people are rather rude and biased so I would not count on them to be a good judge of character. Those that say he lacks all foresight are actually very accurate and you may take their words to heart when analyzing the actions of our red-clad assassin.

Said assassin was now paused over the very large dollar amount that was written on the sheet. It was a rather substantial sum of money that he immediately wanted. Why he wanted it is anyone's guess. A scholar may say that according to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, the average person equates money with the lowest tier of needs, seeing as it fulfills all physiological needs when exchanged, and that most find this comforting. My humble opinion is that he just likes money and prefers large sums of it, in cash, for convenience's sake.

Whatever his reasons, he wanted that money very badly. This lead him to glance down the list until he found an open line. It lead him to completely disregard the pens bearing the name "Mortuary Money Management" conveniently and neatly sitting in the small desk organizer on the desk less than a foot from him and pull out a green crayon instead. It lead him to write in big letters, taking up two of the already dwindling lines on the file, "Wade Wilson," smearing more red on the file in the process. It lead him to check his handiwork, only for him to stare with utmost concentration at the file as he wrote ":)" after it, creating what is referred to as an "emoticon," which makes the receiver of the message interpret the colon and lines as a smiling face.

After observing his creation, he hopped off the desk, slapped the file on the desk, and looked down at the man who was now but a shell of a banker. He looked forward again and addressed the wall.

"Well, my work is done here. Deadpool, out."

And with that, he left. Not just in the literal sense did he leave, for he did indeed leave the room, albeit through the ventilation system instead of what is customary for leaving a room, which in this case would be the only door leading to or from the tiny office surrounded by files. He also figuratively left the Baudelaire orphans in a lot more trouble than they had been in yet, and a good deal more unfortunate than they had previously known they could be.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

I will begin this chapter by stating that our dearly departed Lemony Snicket was far more resourceful than I. He had sources within sources that themselves somehow had relevant leads so that he was rarely without even the slimmest of trails that let him follow the story of the Baudelaire orphans. It is sad to say, but I do not have these sources and am regrettably without an unfortunate event from which the siblings have escaped from only to find themselves in a far more unfortunate circumstance.

With this in mind, I would like for you to imagine a very tragic scenario from which the intelligent and wholly unfortunate Baudelaire orphans have just narrowly escaped from. Imagine it very clearly in your mind's eye. Oh how stacked the odds were against the children! The wretched Count Olaf nearly had them, and their fortune, in his grasp, I'm certain, and it was only by their technical skill, their wits, and their teeth that they escaped at all, only to find themselves once again in the backseat of the vehicle owned by Mr. Poe of Mortuary Money Management.

This, dear reader, is where you can let me start telling the story again. There is no need for you to use any more creative thought on this dismal tale of woe, and if any a thought you should have, I should hope that it is one that will take you far from this story and onwards to higher planes and wonders. Please let those thoughts carry you far from the dreary cityscape and the noisy traffic, the small, cramped vehicle, the coughing man in the front seat who somehow manages to make a boring story of the apparent pen mishap that occurred at his workplace and ended with the death of a fellow employee, and especially far away from the three Baudelaire orphans, as their tale will only grow more unfortunate as time goes on.

Klaus Baudelaire, the second oldest and only boy, sat between his two sisters in quiet, contemplative thought. Violet, the oldest, was staring out the window at the large, busy buildings that seemed so far from their original home which had perished in a mysterious fire, along with their parents and the last remaining hopes the orphans had for a life not filled with circumstances best described as unfortunate. Sunny, the youngest and only an infant, was asleep and dreaming of biting things. What she lacked in communication prowess and depth of thought while sleeping, she more than made up for with her four incredibly sharp teeth and aptitude at using them to the best of her abilities.

Mr. Poe, the banker from Mortuary Money Management, sat up front and told dreary, boring, banking story after banking story in between bouts of coughing. This was not the first time that he had driven the Baudelaires from one unfortunate event to another, and dear reader, it can be assured that it was, unfortunately, not his last. Despite all of the misfortune that the Baudelaires seemed to bring with them to each of their guardians, Mr. Poe never seemed to be affected negatively. I add the stipend negatively only because he seemed to be affected positively from working with the orphans and he was certain he was due for a promotion soon because of his hard work and dedication to their case.

While it would not seem fair to blame the misfortune the Baudelaires underwent time after time again on the banker, I have no qualms about blaming Mr. Poe for a great many things. A qualm is a fear or an uneasiness, usually when you believe that there may have been a misgiving on your part. In this case, there are no misgivings to be had, for Mr. Poe was unintentionally the source for a great many misfortunes brought to the Baudelaire orphans, starting with putting the children in the care of the dreadful Count Olaf and leading up to his current actions, which included ferrying the children slowly through the city traffic to their new guardian and telling yet another banking story.

Klaus was not listening to Mr. Poe's banking story. He was somewhere else entirely, deep within his own very intelligent mind. While Klaus was only 12 years of age, he was incredibly well read and full of knowledge on subjects ranging from anthropology to zoology and everything in between. He thirsted for knowledge and answers, both of which were things he was not going to get on this car ride with Mr. Poe. Klaus, with his baby sister leaning against his arm, jaw working on an invisible object, and his older sister thoughtlessly playing with the ribbon she used to tie up her hair when she was thinking inventive thoughts, was trying to think of any time that his parents or their friends had so much whispered a word of the city they were driving through. With its dirty alleyways and air, the city had not left a good first impression when they had first entered it. While first impressions can be misleading, the long commute, confusing twists and turns of a city whose roadways make little sense to someone who has not been there before, and impossible traffic had done nothing to improve that impression.

Klaus could not think of a single time his parents or any of the guardians that the orphans had since they had earned the title had mentioned this city. While the thought of being in another situation where he did not know who their guardian could possibly be frightened Klaus, the idea that Count Olaf could not possibly find them in such a busy, disgusting, and out of the way side of the city had taken root in his mind, giving him hope.

While he knew he was most likely wrong (and he most definitely was), the simple seedling made Klaus smile. The expression looked almost foreign on the 12 year old's face, and Mr. Poe in the front seat was almost so surprised seeing it in the rearview mirror that he very nearly turned down a wrong way street. To the tune of many horns, he found the correct way and chuckled to himself at finally telling a story that the boy found entertaining. He continued his banking stories post haste, gladly willing to talk through his coughing fits that were only made worse by the city air if it meant brightening the dreary lives of the Baudelaire orphans.

Thankfully, he did not have to talk much more of banking matters. They had arrived at their destination, a large apartment complex that was more imposing than impressive. It loomed above them, the unforgiving gray sky looming even further above that, and the graffiti scrawl squatting along its walls like some creature ready to pounce. Klaus picked up his younger sister and she woke up, making a noise that her siblings understood as "we're here?"

"Yes, Sunny, wherever here is," said Violet, stepping out onto the curb and holding the door open as her siblings climbed out after her. Mr. Poe stepped out and greeted the dingy air with a hearty cough before ushering the children towards the building. The street was so dark between the crowded buildings and the sky so overcast that the one working streetlight a block and a half down decided to glow very enthusiastically long before was usually customary for it to do so. The three children and the banker walked up the steps and opened the front door to the apartment complex.

The lobby, thankfully, was not as dingy as they initially expected it to be, and while the air had a hint of cheap cinnamon apple candles, cigarette smoke, and boxed laundry detergent, it was not nearly as smelly as it was outside. The lighting was actually rather pleasant, though the same couldn't be said for the sour faced man inside of the office. Mr. Poe knocked on the door and removed his hat before stepping in.

"Excuse me, I am from Mortuary Money Management and I need to speak with one Mr. Wade Wilson. Could you tell me where I may find him?"

The sour faced man looked Mr. Poe up and down before cracking a not so sour smile. "Of course, the man's a bit of a shut-in, but I'll take you up there myself, just give me a moment." He got up from his seat, putting a rather difficult looking sudoku puzzle down on the desk that was mostly solved in ink and was most definitely the cause for the initial sour demeanor. The man turned out to be a nice enough soul who had a little information on the Mr. Wade Wilson that the orphans and Mr. Poe were there to see.

He paid his bills on time, rarely left the apartment except to buy groceries, and always had his head covered. He also played music and other media rather loudly on occasion, but always turned it down respectfully when people complained. The man, who turned out to be the assistant manager of the apartments, seemed to like Mr. Wade Wilson because, on the occasions that he had spoken with his tenant, he seemed to be the type who could be counted on to speak his mind. With all of this in mind, one Mr. Wade Wilson sounded like a nice enough person.

From what we know of Mr. Wade Wilson, it can be assured that being described as a "nice person" was not something that he was accustomed to for very obvious reasons. There was no benefit to Mr. Wade Wilson if the neighbors became nosy or believed him to be any better or worse than he actually was, and he intended to keep it that way. The plan had worked flawlessly until the assistant manager knocked on the door to his apartment while he was changing out of his assassin's suit with a banker and three orphans in tow.

While the antics of Mr. Wade Wilson would have been rather entertaining, the three Baudelaires only heard someone yell, "Just a moment," the sound of someone taking a running leap over what could have been a piece of furniture (in this case, the couch), the subsequent crashing sound of someone crash-landing after failing said running leap, explicatives thankfully distorted by the apartment door, and a sound that could only be attributed to opening a cabinet full of tupperware containers and all of them falling over.

Finally, the locks on the opposite side of the door clicked. They then clicked again, for it seemed that the assassin had forgotten to lock his doors to begin with and he had just locked himself in instead of opening to the sorry sight outside of his doorway. Perhaps if the door had stayed locked and shut, some misfortune may have been avoided. By some miracle, maybe Mr. Poe would have taken the Baudelaires back with him and found a more suitable guardian if the door had not opened. But, instead, the door did open, and on the other side, I am sad to say, was the new guardian of the Baudelaire orphans.

The first one to speak was Sunny. In her babbling, she said what could most likely be translated to "Why is he wearing a bag on his head?" Everyone else was too surprised by each other to actually say anything at all. Something about the man wearing a bathrobe over his clothes, large rubber gloves, bunny slippers, and a paper bag over his head, with only one eyehole, caused the group outside of the door to be rendered speechless. Something about the dismal air surrounding the three orphans, the man with the hat who looked like his eyes would bug out of his head if he didn't cough soon, and the assistant manager of his apartments outside of the office he usually occupied gave Mr. Wade Wilson a loss for words that was very rare.

So far, the Baudelaire orphans had met many strange characters and experienced many odd circumstances in their series of unfortunate events. In meeting these people and entering these situations, they had become accustomed to paying careful attention to the first impression they had of them. Some, like their first impression of the city, were very accurate. Others, like their first impression of the apartment complex and the assistant manager, were a pleasant surprise in how different they were from the initial sight.

The observation babbled by Sunny Baudelaire after the awkward silence that followed after the door had been opened ended up being the most accurate first impression that any of the Baudelaire orphans would ever experience in their collective life times. The translation is as follows.

"This guy has to be a loon."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

My fingers long to write a tale that differs from the actual events of the story. My palms itch when I so much as think of the joy of writing the words "upon seeing the man on the other side of the door, Mr. Poe had an uncharacteristic change of heart and decided then and there to bring the orphans back with him for a further review of their file, avoiding the unfortunate incident that would have plagued them if he had chosen to leave them in the care of a one Mr. Wade Wilson." Unfortunately, this is not the case. While this is an act of fiction based on a series written by Lemony Snicket, may God rest his soul, it should be noted that even I cannot change the miserable events that the orphans would endure, otherwise I would do so wholeheartedly. Perhaps I could even change the name of such a fiction to "A Series of Fortunate Events" instead.

Sadly, this is not that particular fiction, and it pains me to say that Mr. Poe very characteristically did not take the children back with him that day. Going out of town instead of inwards ended up being a much quicker drive for the banker, and he left them behind in much less time than it had taken to bring them to their current circumstance. He was, after all, on banking hours and getting back to work had to be his top priority if he wanted to get the promotion that was so close to being within his grasp. That and the city air did not sit well with him and his cough.

Perhaps it is here, after abolishing all hope for a quick escape for the Baudelaire orphans, that I should expand upon the events in the last chapter. Our assassin had, of course, just returned from a job and done his absolute best to not only hide the suit he had been wearing, but also to quick change into a less alarming outfit in record time. In his haste, he looked absolutely ridiculous, something that he was used to being. The sight that greeted the orphans, the banker, and the assistant manager was not the most ridiculous he had ever looked, nor would it ever come within range of the look that holds that title to this day. While I do not know all of the details, it involved three clowns, an inflatable sumo costume, a picnic, seven Canadian geese, and a poorly-timed dog whistle.

As this was not the most ridiculous look Wade Wilson had ever been sported, he talked himself out of the situation rather well, explaining that the unexpected guests at his door had caught him at a bad time. If there was one thing that the assassin had aplenty despite unfortunate physical circumstances, it was a healthy dose of charisma that he used to get himself out of countless situations that could not be solved with bullets, swords, misdirection, or well-aimed, food-based projectiles. Charisma is a certain power of charm that draws others towards the one who has it. It is how people with power obtain more power, people with friends obtain more friends, people with money obtain more money, and how one Mr. Wade Wilson managed to gain three orphans in one fell swoop, making both his and their situation more unfortunate than if he had simply never opened his mouth.

The fact that his face was hidden only aided in his abilities to persuade the banker and the assistant manager that he was not only the man they were looking for but that he would lovingly take care of the the three Baudelaire orphans, of course he knew their parents, and that he would love to show them around, but he didn't want to take their time since they were very busy men. The both of them thoroughly convinced, the assistant manager walked Mr. Poe out to the lobby before returning to his sudoku puzzle.

As the two men were walking down the hallway, the orphans were looking around the living room of the one bedroom apartment, taking in everything around them. It was not as dingy or dirty as the city would lead one to believe, or as poorly upkept as Count Olaf's house had been prior to their vigorous cleaning during their occupation of the dastardly villain's abode. It was definitely the living place of a single male. It was a bit messy, with clothes strewn here and there and it could have done with a good vacuuming, dusting, and carpet cleaning. All things considered, the furniture looked comfortable, the television was a decent size, and the lighting cast the entire place in a warm and welcoming glow. Violet took Sunny from her brother because his arms were getting tired. The door closed and the three snicks of the locks clicking in place decisively closed them in.

As the men were walking down the few flights of stairs to the lobby, the Baudelaires were being ushered to the kitchen by the absolute stranger who was still wearing a paper bag on his head and continued to bump into everything because he had only had time to cut one eyehole. They were sat down on the only two chairs in the little dining area outside of the kitchen. Their new guardian leaned against the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area like a small peninsula. There was an awkward silence as the three orphans stared at him and he stared back at them, albeit with only one eye, through the one eyehole.

As Mr. Poe was bid a good day and began his journey back to the bank unhindered by traffic, Violet Baudelaire stiffly addressed their new guardian in a manner that reflected several other circumstances that had started with an introduction and ended rather unfortunately for the three orphans. "Hello, I am Violet, this is my younger brother Klaus, and this is my sister Sunny." She was stopped at the end of the "y" in her younger sister's name by a gloved hand as the assassin raised it in a stopping motion.

"Hold up a minute here, just give me a sec to verbally process. Your last name is Baudelaire, which is the most snobby sounding name that I have ever heard in my life, by the way, and I have met with billionaires so snobby is a thing I get. But one of you is named Klaus? Is that spelled with a 'C' or a 'K?'"

"A 'K,'" said Klaus. "Right, of course it is, shouldn't have expected anything else. So Klaus, can you tell me why you are in my little, kitchen, eating area, thing, whatever, right now?" Klaus turned his head to look at his sisters slowly so as not to alarm the strangely clad man who was now trying, rather unsuccessfully, to pick a fluff off of his bathrobe with a rubber glove clad hand. Violet and Sunny simply shrugged. "We are in your dinette because you brought us in here?" Klaus hazarded, turning his head back to the man who had somehow become their guardian. He tried to make eye contact through the eyehole in the paper bag, but couldn't see a single thing through it. Mr. Wade Wilson stopped picking at the bathrobe.

"Is that what this is called? I barely even remember it's here most of the time, just eat in the living room like any normal person does. Huh." He lightly tip-tapped a short burst on the counter with his hands as he popped off of it and started making his way into the kitchen. "Well, I was hoping for more info on the whole orphans living with me thing, but it looks like you guys know about as much as I do about all of this stuff. I'm sure the guy with the hat will come back tomorrow and pick you kids up anyway. You want something to drink? Kids like soda, right?"

In their time as orphans, the Baudelaires had never held a conversation with someone wearing a bathrobe and a paper bag. They had not had the fortune of being in the company of someone who did not not talk down to them immediately upon meeting them. They had rarely had anyone acknowledge that the circumstances surrounding their unceremonious drop-off at the abodes of their various guardians were anything short of strange, or that the guardianship granted to said guardians was a mistake. The Baudelaire orphans had never met anyone quite like Wade Wilson, which was an act of fortune up to this point.

It is my sad duty to inform you that any other resemblance to fortune in this act of fiction will not be found. Chapter Three


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

While Wade Wilson was outwardly taking the events in stride, he was also outwardly wearing a bag over his head, which was not even the most ridiculous article of clothing on his personage. Wade Wilson's inner dialogue was another matter entirely and was even more scattered than his attire. To put the phrase "inner dialogue" in layman's terms, it is to hold an internal conversation with one's self. Wade Wilson was more than comfortable having this sort of conversation out loud with others present on other occasions, but considering the amount of crude language currently circulating within the confines of his mind, he thought better than to verbalize his thoughts and continued to keep the dialogue internal. As he poured the children their sodas and excused himself to start sorting out a bedding situation, his inner voices went back and forth nonsensically until things started to make all too much sense. While I am not a psychic by any means, I will do my best to relate a summary of what he may have been thinking, sans crude language for the sake of decency.

As he walked back to his room and shut the door to start cleaning up the bedroom, leaving the orphans to their soda and thoughts, he probably thought a string of scattered, panicked thoughts similar to this:

"They're actually really sad looking," "No ***, they're orphans, ***, you'd be gloomy looking too if you didn't have parents," "wait, I'm technically an orphan,""A lot of people I know are orphans," "That's like, half of a tragic superhero backstory," "The other half could be living with an assassin as your guardian," "***, that sounds like the backstory to a comic book villain," "Some banker just drops off the kids and doesn't even know that they'll become supervillains," "wait," "No *** way," "That job at the bank," "are you *** serious," "It was written in green crayon," "With no address or anything," "How the ***-"

At this point, he hit his shin which healed right after bruising, but the constant pain of not seeing where he was going through the one eyehole in the bag was just annoying enough to change his attire. He briefly glanced at his suit, which had been hidden to the best of his ability in a panicked situation, which is not very well and right in the open, before thinking better of it and hiding it in a much better spot. He could not wear an assassin's mask around the children. Something about it was beyond the realm of decency, which even he was aware of the boundaries thereof. He had to find another head covering. The new mission most likely focused his thoughts a bit.

As he scuttled around the room, picking up laundry, trash, and various weapons, all the while keeping in mind that he did not want to mentally or emotionally scar the three Baudelaire children sitting in the other room and that he should make a plan, he was most likely thinking:

"So, like, should I try baby proofing things," "I think the little one is a baby," "Pretty sure swords aren't baby-proof," -He did accidentally stab himself with a katana and I believe here in the chain of thought is the most reasonable pause- "What about the bigger ones," "they're at least 10," "Maybe," "Wait, the guy with the hat will probably be here tomorrow," "Or maybe even later tonight once he sees how stupid this is," "All I have to do is keep them for one *** night," "I shouldn't have to baby proof my apartment for kids that are leaving-"

Here is where he found a new covering, a scarf, halfway hidden underneath the bed, and where his actions will take precedence over what he may or may not be thinking. He proceeded to wrap it around his face, leaving enough room for his eyes. To aid your imagination, think of the iteration of H.G. Well's "The Invisible Man" in which he wears bandages around his face, but instead of imagining bandages around his face, imagine a scarf with little skulls and crossbones, and instead of imagining someone invisible, imagine someone very visible who looks like Wade Wilson. That picture should be rather clear now.

The room had a clear path from where he was standing, and nothing incriminating was visible in front of him. He went ahead and changed the sheets for the first time in what was most likely a disturbingly long time. He managed to cram what was in the closet even further into the closet before he remembered The Chair. It stared at him from his limited peripherals and the daunting figure that it made against the backdrop of the isolated corner of his bedroom made him want to scream. He had somehow forgotten about The Chair, the most dangerous situation in the room.

Perhaps you are already familiar with the concept of The Chair. The Chair could be any form of furniture or flat surface, though a single, outcast, isolated, or mismatched chair set off to the side seems to be the constant manifestation of the idea. The Chair is where everything that does not have a place goes that is too big for The Drawer, which serves a very similar purpose, albeit for small objects that can fit into a drawer. The Chair is a catch-all for: dirty clothes, clean clothes, clothes that do not fit, clothes that never did fit, clothes that never will fit, old shoes, mismatched socks, small stuffed animals, large stuffed animals, books, magazines, graphic novels, scarves, knick-knacks that do not deserve shelf space, old records, things that should be donated, things that were donated, and, in Wade Wilson's case, a multitude of weapons that would surely shoot, stab, or otherwise mutilate the one who ever decided to dismantle the precarious pile.

As Wade Wilson struggled with the very concept of The Chair, the three Baudelaire orphans drank their soda in the dinette, sitting atop similar chairs that looked like but would never encapsulate the fear and loathing Wade Wilson felt for The Chair. Violet helped Sunny sip her drink, then turned to her brother. "Maybe he isn't so bad," she said, referring to one Mr. Wade Wilson. "Maybe he's awful," Klaus responded, setting his full cup down on the table. Sunny burbled something that can be roughly translated as "Maybe he's just crazy."

Truth be told, the Baudelaires did not know what to think of their new guardian. While they hoped desperately that a mistake had been made and that it would be corrected shortly, they also realistically understood that Mr. Poe would not notice it and that another member of Mortuary Money Management had never picked up the slack left by the representative of the Baudelaires since they had become orphans. And, while there were occasional screams coming from the room now that they all silently accepted as screams of agony and rage, the only things the three children could fault Wade Wilson for were lying to Mr. Poe about knowing their parents and being a tad eccentric.

They sipped their soda quietly until their guardian returned. He was wearing a scarf around his face instead of the paper bag and he had changed his outfit as well. What the children did not know was that the bathrobe, bunny slippers, and all other articles of clothing he had been wearing were casualties to The Chair and now resided where he had hastily tossed them and everything else that had been residing upon that particular piece of furniture. He was a little out of breath and visibly shaken.

"Alright kids, you get the bed tonight, hope you don't mind sharing it. Got fresh sheets. Don't, I repeat, do NOT go under, reach under, or even think about what is under the bed." The Baudelaires, accustomed to sharing a bed and not thinking about things from their past guardians, simply nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Wilson," said Violet. "Okay, no to that, don't ever do that again," said the assassin good naturedly, heading into the kitchen to pour himself some soda and some form of alcohol to accompany it. "I'm not Mr. Wilson, I'll never be Mr. Wilson. That was the name of my fourth grade math teacher," he stated on his way back to the dinette, "and I hated math."

"Then, thank you, Mr. Wade," Violet amended, glancing at the man to gauge his reaction. He had lifted the bottom half of the scarf and was drinking whatever he had concocted in the kitchen, so she assumed that this was a satisfactory name for their new guardian. She bounced Sunny on her knee absentmindedly, waiting for him to finish his drink and tell them what was going to happen next. In one fluid and practiced motion, he put down his empty cup and pulled his scarf back down to hide his face.

"So, the scarf thing doesn't bother you kids, right?" he asked a bit belatedly, gesturing broadly to the fabric covering his head. The siblings looked at each other and then shrugged in unison. "It's odd, but we are used to odd things and it isn't the most odd thing we've seen," said Violet. "Okay, good to hear. Guess you guys have seen some sh- STUFF. Stuff." Wade Wilson glanced awkwardly at his wrist, which did not have a watch on it. "It's a little early for dinner, but I bet you kids are hungry after being in the car all day, and I'm beat after wrestling that room into shape. I was thinking about pizza, you know, so we don't have to leave the apartment. That sound good to you guys?" Sunny nodded enthusiastically. Wade Wilson smiled, shifting the fabric of the scarf ever so slightly in the process. "She likes the pizza crust," Klaus explained; "Sometimes it's really tough to bite through, and she appreciates a challenge." The explanation made him laugh, "No way, what? What kid likes the crust of the pizza?"

They chatted a bit after he placed the order, Klaus about how Violet was a technical genius, Violet about how Klaus was incredibly intelligent, and the both of them about how Sunny could bite through anything.

And that, dear reader, was when a terrible, terrible thing happened.

Wade Wilson started to like the Baudelaires.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It is rarely safe to assume anything, especially since the first definition of "assume" is to jump to a conclusion without proof and the second is to take on responsibility. Neither is without its risks. While you, dear reader, do not have to assume anything, as I will tell you as a fact that Mr. Poe, the banker, did not come to whisk the Baudelaire orphans away from their new guardian, Mr. Wade Wilson did have to assume the responsibility of being said guardian.

It began that morning when he realized that the orphans were early risers. When one makes a comparison to anything, one may have to establish the base for which they are comparing it to. The established base here is that Wade Wilson, on his days off, would get out of bed at the earliest around noon and at the latest the next day that he had to work. He had once spent three days on the couch, surviving on pork rinds, lukewarm and eventually flat soda pop, and leftover pizza with the only incentive to get up at all being to go to the restroom. So in this case, the Baudelaires were actually moving about in the kitchen around nine in the morning, which is not very early at all.

The only reason they were not moving around the apartment sooner was because they had already showered, brushed their teeth (the Baudelaires had very few belongings, but the small pack that Violet brought in had three toothbrushes, a hotel toiletry sampler, one change of clothes each, diapers for Sunny, a deck of cards, a book, a small sewing kit, and a mutilated teething ring), and made the bed. After they had done everything and their new guardian had not come to fetch them, they decided to venture into the apartment, or at least go straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, then back again to fetch The Chair from the bedroom so that the seating set was finally complete.

Wade Wilson was sprawled across the couch, the blanket he had used wadded and tossed on the floor but the scarf on his face strangely still in place and not wrinkled in the least. He could smell something cooking, and in his groggy mind he could find no other reason that this could be justified besides that he had accidentally hired a personal chef in his sleep again. He rolled right onto the floor and stood up into a stretch. Not a single action looked graceful in any way, though there was a fluidity to it that said that he did this very often. He started hobbling to the kitchen, working on a knot in his back that hitched his steps every time he used his left leg.

Wade Wilson was very surprised when he arrived in the kitchen. His mind was still groggy and nothing made sense in the morning fog. He took inventory. The smell that had drawn him into the kitchen had been cheese omelettes, scrambled eggs with cheese, fried ham, and toast. The oven was safely turned off and there were actually clean plates and silverware set on the table, along with the variety of food. All of the chairs were present, though he could still tell which chair was The Chair and, in his fuzzy mind, he somehow decided that it was The Chair's fault that he had a knot in his lower back. That was when his groggy mind realized the most important factor, the one thing that made everything else make sense.

There were three children sitting around the table.

There were three children in his apartment.

There were three children staring at him.

There were three children who had washed the dishes, made breakfast, brought The Chair back to its siblings in the dinette, and set the table.

One of them asked if he was alright, to which he replied, "I gotta pee."

The Baudelaire orphans did not know what to expect from their guardian, but a proclamation of that sort followed by Wade Wilson hobbling back to the bathroom was not something that had even crossed their minds. They glanced around at each other before they started serving breakfast again. Violet leaned across the table with her plate as Klaus piled a generous serving of scrambled eggs on her plate. Sunny nibbled at her piece of toast, which was rock hard, as per her preference. A scream came from the bathroom, which almost caused Violet to drop her plate of eggs.

Wade Wilson came back into the dinette much calmer than the scream would have had them believe. The Chair was the only open one, and he gave it a look that could be easily recognized as disdainful and full of loathing, even through the scarf he still wore over his face. "So the prodigal chair returns," he stated before plopping down into it as if he were boneless. While he was a little more awake now than he was previous to his morning scream, it was obvious that the gears inside of his head were whirring overtime to put together what exactly had happened the previous night to warrant three children making breakfast in his apartment.

Klaus broke him out of his morning fog. "Mr. Wade, would you like an omelette?" Wade shook his head, making a sound from his mouth that sounded like a cartoon duck, which made Sunny giggle uncontrollably. "Yeah, yeah. Sounds great. Hey, good jobs, kids. Sorry about the mess and thanks for breakfast. Looks amazing. Can't believe I had eggs in the fridge." Violet nodded and swallowed her bite before speaking. "They were about to go bad, so we used almost all of them. We were going to use the rest for pancakes tomorrow. If that's alright." "If that's alright, of course it's alright. I can't think of why pancakes wouldn't be alright," Wade said as Klaus slipped a cheese omelette onto his plate, as well as a piece of toast that was not rock hard. "Seriously though guys, I dropped the ball. I was pretty sure that the guy in the hat would call and wake me up to tell me that you guys would be going back with him by now."

Violet glanced away with a half smile, Klaus snorted around his mouthful of eggs, and Sunny openly laughed and babbled something to the tune of "yeah, right," spraying crumbs everywhere. While it had sounded nice when he first suggested it, the three siblings knew that Mr. Poe would not be coming to get them. In all of the time that they had known him, Mr. Poe had proven time and again that he was only competent at telling boring stories and being incompetent, not at managing their affairs. While Wade Wilson had fostered hope that the children would not be in his life for much longer, the children had known all too well that they would most likely be here until an event occurred, taking them away from this guardian and onto the next one. The children did not mind Wade Wilson, but he had a certain quality to his actions that told them that he should not be their caretaker. Or around children. Ever.

After breakfast, Violet and Klaus scrubbed the dishes and put them into the dishwasher while Sunny sat happily on the counter with a pot and a spoon, lightly tapping as she tried to write a new song for her siblings' enjoyment in her head. The older two cleaned up the kitchen and dinette areas while Wade took a shower and completed his morning ritual. When he came back to the dinette area, he was no longer wearing a scarf. Instead, he had a hoodie with a false front that looked like a superhero mask. He hovered over The Chair, propping his arms on its back while he stood behind it. Nobody commented about his mask. He was a little disappointed.

"Alright kids, we might have a problem. Seeing as I'm new to the whole guardianship of orphans thing, and my pad is actually a huge hazard to, like everybody, I'm gonna have to set you up with a sitter while I go on a job on...what's today?" "Tuesday," said Violet, wiping her hands on a paper towel and coming up to the counter. "Uh-huh, right, so, tomorrow. On tomorrow. I have a job. And it's definitely not bring your kids to work day. That's next month." While Violet did not know who he was looking at when he said this, it was painfully obvious that he was winking behind his hoodie mask.

"Do you have someone who would be able to watch us on such short notice?" she asked, picking Sunny up and sitting down on a chair across from where he stood. "Nope, but we're going to go see a friend and see if maybe they have something set up for something like this." By this time, Klaus had come into the dinette and had settled for standing behind his seated sisters. They looked as though they had been arranged by a photographer for a family portrait and had been told not to smile.

"Like, right now. Get your shoes-wait are you kids already wearing your shoes? In the house? Why would you do that?" The children shrugged. It was something they were accustomed to. "Geez, just, let's go. Right now." Wade popped up from his propping and started shooing the children towards the door, like a reverse trail of ducks. The door closed and locked behind the four of them. It was going to be a very strange day.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Wade Wilson did not own a car. There were many reasons behind this lack of ownership that are completely justifiable for any person who lives in a large city. Taxis and buses are, after all, more common and their drivers usually more daring behind the wheel than any sane person should be. Traffic is usually difficult to maneuver and everyone seems to think they have the right of way, no matter what color the lights are. Parking costs money on some blocks, is impossible to find on others, and is the worst idea imaginable on the particularly bad streets. While these are all justifiable reasons for not owning a car in the city, Wade Wilson used none of these excuses.

If he were to tell the truth, the main reasons that he did not own a vehicle were all very specific and telling of his character. Wade did not carry his wallet with him when he wore his red suit, for one. He either did not have the appropriate pockets or, if he did, they were full of knives or other things that really do not belong in pockets at all, leaving no room for a driver's license. Which was another reason he did not carry a wallet; he had lost his actual license some time back and did not feel like going to the DMV or getting his picture taken. Wade had also procured a nasty name for himself when he had been behind the wheel of several different vehicles, one incident being that he thought he could drive two vehicles at the same time (he could not).

Since Wade Wilson did not have a car and no sane taxi driver would search for patrons along the streets leading to his apartment building, this left the three orphans and their hooded guardian to walk along said streets towards the destination Wade had in mind. After waving to the assistant manager of the apartments on their way out, the children had very little trouble keeping up with their guardian. After the next three turns and almost jay-walking through a busy intersection, the children had a harder time keeping pace. Violet, who was carrying Sunny, ended up grabbing the back of Wade's jacket while Klaus gripped the back of his sister's dress.

Wade Wilson, who was rarely around children, did not realize he was walking too fast for them to keep up in such an unfamiliar environment. He was surprised at the death grip the girl had on the back of his jacket, but continued at the same pace when the sidewalks became more crowded. While he was ignorant about most things having to do with the Baudelaires, like how long their leg span was or even their middle names, he had correctly guessed that they would quickly be overwhelmed in such a busy environment. He wanted to get to their destination quickly before the city swallowed them or otherwise separated them from him. The last thing he needed was to feel guilty about accidentally losing the children less than 24 hours after they had been put in his care. In their haste, they looked like an actual trail of ducks bobbing through the crowd, making an elderly couple gush as they passed and becoming the focus of no less than three social media posts as they made their way through the city.

After a few more turns and several minutes, they arrived at another dark alleyway. It had taken about 23 minutes to get from the apartment building to this spot, but none of the children could remember the route no matter how hard they tried to. "Where are we?" Sunny babbled to Violet. Since Klaus was still gripping the back of her dress, Violet felt him mirror her shrug in answer to their sister's question. She tugged on Wade's jacket, still not daring to let go. "Mr. Wade, where are we?" she asked politely. Wade had lead the duck trail towards a window beside the back door of the building lining one side of the alley. "We're, uh, just seeing that friend I was talking about," he said over his shoulder. He tapped on the window and then the door before finally just pulling open the door and walking into the building, the three children stuttering behind him and bumping each other when he stopped for each action.

Dear reader, I would like to pause here for clarity on my own personal opinion on this matter. Under very few circumstances is it advisable to walk into a building by the back door, especially if said back door has a faded "employees only" sign on it. One such circumstance might be if you are an employee of the establishment. Another would be that the front door was locked. When it would be most advisable is if one should find themselves being chased by a vampire, in which case entering a building that they have not been invited into by a door that strictly forbids it is the best course of action.

Wade and the children were not employees of the establishment and, while the front door was locked, it was because the establishment did not open until two in the afternoon. It is also safe to say that, though the children had been chased and hunted by many foul beings, none of them had been vampires to their knowledge and Wade was currently not doing a certain vampiric anti-hero any favors in his hunt. So, dear reader, the route Wade and the children took into the establishment is not endorsed.

Wade Wilson rarely does anything worth endorsing.

The friend Wade had mentioned was Weasel. Weasel was the owner of the bar Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children at his best, and at his worst he was pretty much everything else he did. He was not a bad man, per se, there are many worse men than he, but he was yet another man who should not be around the Baudelaires, or any children for that matter. He swore a lot, had a lot of guns and weaponry, which he sold to various mercenaries and assassins, and he took bets on the lives of said mercenaries and assassins. Swearing, guns, gambling, killers for hire, and alcohol were all things that the Baudelaires were, unfortunately, familiar with. This did not make the location any more suitable for them.

They first encountered Weasel after coming in through the back door, walking through the small, dingy kitchen, and coming through the doors that led to the bar. He was watching TV and mopping, but mostly watching TV. While the quartet had not tried to be quiet, the unobtrusive nature of the orphans and the instincts of the assassin had kicked in, making their entrance unintentionally stealthy. Wade rapped on the bar's counter. Weasel turned quickly, causing him to slip in the mop water and fall very awkwardly.

"Holy ***, it's Spiderman."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Wade Wilson is not a bad person. This statement, while true, does not make him a good person either. Good and bad are not merely opposites, as they are often perceived to be, but they exist in the absence of each other. Just like how darkness is simply an absence of light and nothing is the absence of something, badness is an absence of goodness. So that being said, Wade Wilson is simply mostly badness with a bit of goodness scattered throughout so that some of his actions could be justified, maybe sometimes. It helps if one squints and tilts their head a bit when analyzing the evidence.

Spiderman, a hero of New York, is a mostly good person whose little bit of badness shows sometimes in the form of selfishness and angst, but not much else.

By this logic, Wade Wilson is by no means Spiderman. He is almost the opposite of Spiderman, not just the absence of the masked hero.

"Holy ***, it's Spiderman," Weasel said from his place on the wet floor.

"Thought you forgot," Wade said to the wall, tugging at the fabric of his sweatshirt.

The children were mostly confused, but said nothing. The three of them were starting to wonder if, perhaps, they were the strange ones and these were normal things that happened to normal people. To cease your wondering, dear reader, they weren't, they don't, and large amounts of evidence continues to prove that normal people do not exist.

Wade signalled for the children to stay where they were. Violet shifted her sister to the arm whose hand had been diligently holding onto the fabric of Wade's hooded sweatshirt. Klaus turned a bit and started reading some of the labels on the bottles behind them. Sunny managed to maintain her view of the spectacle on the other side of the bar, despite being shifted from one arm to the other. Wade hopped over the counter instead of going through the little flap only a foot away from where he had been standing. He did this often.

"Yeah, it's me, Spiderman. I'm breaking into your bar. Me, the superhero, Spiderman. I brought kids because of the sign outside. Because that's something I would do as the masked hero, Spiderman."

Wade reached down to help the man up off of the floor. "Wade? Seriously?" Weasel questioned. "Where did you even get a hoodie like that?" Wade let go of Weasel's hand once the man was on his feet. Wade wiped his own hand on the hoodie in question. "I don't know, must've just grabbed it. Probably would have been easier to wear this thing instead of a scarf last night though, you know? It's like some sort of plot device someone just threw in there because it sounded like a funny ide-"

"Holy ***, you were serious about the kids," Weasel interrupted. He then clapped his hands over his mouth in such an animated fashion that he almost slipped again. He stepped out of the puddle and amended, "Crap, I meant, holy crap, you were serious about the kids." The Baudelaires glanced at each other, all most likely having the same thought about how they had heard much, much worse things in their time as orphans than light, accidental swearing. The censorship was appreciated, though.

Weasel turned to Wade and whispered, "Wade, you can't bring kids into a bar. It's like, super illegal. Also, why do you have kids? You shouldn't have those, like, ever." Wade slapped his friend on the shoulder in what might have been an act of camaraderie if the receiving party did not find it so painful and the giving party did not have a high enough pain tolerance to not know that it was indeed too hard of a slap.

"They are actually my kids, Weasel," Wade whispered back. Weasel's eyes widened with shock. "Dude, hell no. I mean, heck no. Where did you get them?" It seemed that the censorship would carry on, even in their whispered conversation. Just in case. Wade thought about it for a moment, then decided to start from the beginning, which is where most good stories start.

This is not to confuse you, dear reader. The story he told was not good and its events will lead to more unfortunate ones hereafter.

"You remember that job? At the bank? Some guy embezzling some stuff from a widow's account and another guy wanted to off him? Pretty shifty dude, really deserved the hit. Yeah, well he was at the bank and their file was at the bank and I was at the bank and I may have signed the file after killing him and now I have three orphans who are freaking loaded living under my care. Me. An assassin. Who is going to kill another guy on...tomorrow. They made me eggs this morning, man. I can't take them to see me some shish-kabob a guy for some cash. That's messed up."

Throughout this monologue, Weasel had been double-tasking, a pastime that can often be very dangerous, case in point being that it had lead to him slipping in his own mop water before. In this instance, he had been listening to Wade while intently watching the three children. The infant was watching them with wide, knowing eyes while the older two looked at each other and had a complete conversation without even opening their mouths. The contents of the conversation between Klaus and Violet mostly had to do with how much they shouldn't be there and a little bit to do with how effective the contents in the bottles behind them would work as molotov cocktails. Neither wanted to test them.

Wade was looking at him expectantly. "I need help, Weasel. I think those kids have seen some shi-STUFF. Stuff. I'm pretty sure they've been through alot and I don't need to emotionally scar them more." Weasel nodded. "Yeah, they look super sad. Do they always look like that?" Wade sighed. "They're orphans and right now, we're the only ones standing between them and them becoming super villains or something because of their tragic backstory. Yes, they always look sad."

Weasel gawked, turning back to Wade with his mouth hanging open. "Dude, that would be so swe-" he paused in his line of thought because of a sudden feeling that Wade was making an unhappy face behind the mask.

"Okay, yeah, noted. Not sweet. That would be bad. But yeah dude, I guess I can watch them, if you can't find someone else. They can hang in the office or something while I keep out here. They're pretty quiet."

Wade slapped his friend's arm again out of joy. It hurt just as much as the last time.

The Baudelaires still had no idea of what was happening or what was to come.


End file.
